


Be Aggressive

by Duckyboos



Series: Profound Meetings [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Russian Mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29252298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: There’s a cute guy who works at the coffee shop on the corner of Brownlow and Netherton.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Profound Meetings [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820488
Comments: 33
Kudos: 256





	Be Aggressive

**Author's Note:**

> I gave in and wrote a coffee shop AU.
> 
> Also, an update for SYD is coming soon! RL has got in the way over the past few weeks, but I'll try to upload the next chapter ASAP (and respond to comments on chapter 3 at the same time).

There’s a cute guy who works at the coffee shop on the corner of Brownlow and Netherton. 

He’s got blue eyes and dark, messy hair, and he absolutely isn’t Dean’s type, because he’s shy and sweeter than the sickly white-chocolate-mocha-hot-chocolate-with-marshmallows-and-sprinkles the shop offers as a special. 

Dean indulged his sweet tooth back when he was young and still figuring it all out for himself. Now that he’s (a little) older, it turns out he likes his men how he likes his coffee; bitter and strong (and sometimes, as a treat, with an abundance of cream.)

So yeah, Dean doesn’t want shy and sweet. Dean wants to be thrown against a wall and _fucked_ , not asked through inky-black lashes whether he’d like his usual poppyseed muffin to go with that. 

It kinda sucks, ‘cause Dean’s seen those loveheart eyes on enough faces to know when someone is into him. 

And yeah, so maybe Dean looks back, flirts a little, because that’s who he is, even though he has no intention of following through in this instance. 

“Hello, Dean,” the kid always says like the words carry weight, and he’s probably a foreign exchange student at the community college or something, ‘cause he’s got a slight intonation on certain words and the occasional heavy rolling ‘r’ when he forgets himself and nerds out about the latest band he’s in love with. 

Not that Dean’s been eavesdropping on the conversations the kid has with his colleagues. He just happens to overhear sometimes when he’s waiting at the counter. Or sitting at one of the tables. Or pretending to be engrossed in a newspaper left behind an early-morning commuter.

It’s a crying shame something that shy and docile is bundled in such a hot package, because as the kid tops up a woman’s coffee at the little table by the giant plate-glass window, Dean catches a glimpse of the kid’s tanned, broad forearm. 

Not a total twink, then. But still a sweetheart, which puts Dean back at square one. 

Still, he’s nice to look at, and the coffee is good, so Dean keeps coming back. 

  
  


***

“Hello, Dean,” the kid says tonight, blue eyes roguish and oh so pretty. Dean’s sorely tempted to make an exception, just this once, but it’s not the way he swings anymore, not really, and definitely not for a boy who’s probably still living at home with mommy and daddy.

“Hey, Castiel,” Dean replies cheerfully, because a) there’s no reason he can’t be polite, and b) it’s Friday night and the weekend is his.

The kid smiles, like he always does when Dean remembers his name, practically scuffing his toe on the floor. “The usual?”

“To go. Thanks, Cas.” The nickname rolls off his tongue, surprisingly easy, and Dean finds himself returning the smile.

Cheeks stained a faint pink, the kid turns his back and sets the coffee machine to work. Dean absolutely, resolutely does not watch his nimble fingers as Cas reaches for a paper cup and sleeve.

The coffee shop is empty save for the two of them. Outside it’s quiet too. The lull before everyone descends on the local bars to get drunk and rub up on each other. A couple wanders past the shop, arm in arm, breath fogging up the night air in front of them.

“Do you have plans tonight?” Cas asks over his shoulder and the sound of beans getting milled.

There’s a well-thumbed paperback next to the register, spine cracked in half. Harris’ Red Dragon.

_Huh._

Dean waits for the noise to die down. “Nah, it’s just me and a takeout tonight.”

He refrains from returning the question, because Dean's scared if Cas answers yes, that his green eyes will turn greener, and if he answers no, then Dean’ll ask him if he’d like to make _Dean_ his plans. 

Which again, stupid. No. Bad. It’ll only end in frustrated tears and wilted boners.

Coffee ready, Dean reaches into his pocket for his wallet, but Cas tells him, “On the house,” as he slides the to-go cup across the countertop, their fingertips touching when Dean makes to grab it.

The air in the coffee shop suddenly feels thicker, hotter. 

Before Dean does something dumb like ask the kid out on a date that’ll go nowhere, because he absolutely isn’t Dean’s fucking type (literally), Dean thanks him and turns away, coffee-to-go in his hand. 

“Dean, wait--” Cas calls out after him and Dean halts halfway to the door, both hopeful and resigned to saying no, no matter what. 

_Yeahuh._

The bell over the door jingles. In steps two of the most comically evil-looking henchmen Dean’s ever seen. He’d laugh if it wasn’t perfectly apparent by the semi-automatics in their huge paws, that this ain’t a laughing matter.

Dean’s blood turns to ice. His grip reflexively tightens on his coffee.

_Oh, fuck._

“Castiel,” one of them says in a thick Russian accent. “Your father has sent us to bring you home. He says he’s tired of your little experiment.”

“Fuck you,” sweetheart Cas spits from behind the counter. Which he then follows up with some bullet-fast foreign language that Dean’s gonna go right ahead and assume is Russian. Words fly back and forth between Cas and the scary goons, whilst Dean tries to subtly side-step out of the direct line of fire.

Things are getting more and more heated, and the thread of Dean’s panic is getting wound tighter and tighter. One of the goon’s gorilla paws tightens on his gun. 

Cas sees it too. “Dean,” he says, this time with a thicker accent and more force. “Come here.” He’s not looking at Dean as he orders him about; no, his focus is on the two in the doorway, blue eyes ice cold. 

Dean’s hunted-deer attention bounces back and forth between Cas and the goons as he gingerly moves across the no-man’s-land of the shop’s floor, nudging the high back of a chair as he goes, sending it scooching across the linoleum.

Once he’s behind the counter with Cas, the kid(?) draws a gun from underneath the register. A pistol with a fitted silencer. 

_Holy shit._

Finger across the trigger guard, he points it steadily at the men who wouldn’t look out of place at a James Bond villain lineup. “Get out. And tell my father that if he sends someone to collect me again, he’ll fucking regret it.” He pulls back the slide on the pistol to show that he means business. 

The goons exchange glances, speaking lowly and unintelligibly. Excruciating seconds tick by. 

“Fine,” The one with a bald head and the letters ‘ОМУТ’ tattooed on his knuckles says eventually. “We’ll pass on your message. But he won’t like it.”

The bell tinkles again and Cas keeps the gun on them until he’s satisfied that they’re well and truly gone. 

Heart thudding in his chest, Dean rushes out on an exhale, “Holy fucking hell, Cas. What the fuck was that?”

Cas sighs, flipping the gun’s safety on and placing it on the counter. “My father thinks he can control me. I started this place to get out from under his thumb. Every so often he tries to drag me back kicking and screaming.”

_Well, shit._

“Who the fuck is your father, some mafia don?”

Cas arches an eyebrow. 

Oh.

“And let me guess, you’re the heir apparent?”

“Something like that,” Cas smiles wryly as he steps around the counter, shop keys in hand. “Or I was until I left.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean muses aloud as Cas locks the door and flips the sign. “So all this time, here I was thinking that you’re some cute kid and you’re-- you’re a gun-toting badass.”

Returning to Dean, Cas ducks his head, and says, “I’m sorry you had to see that.” He taps a couple of buttons on the register and it springs open. He begins counting, depositing the money in little piles. 

The quiet stretches out between them, one desperate minute barging into the next. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets, heart hammering in his chest now for a different reason.

_Now or never, Winchester._

“Well, I’m not."

Cas’ head jerks up. A pile of nickels collapses across the countertop. 

Dean self-consciously clears his throat. “I never asked if you had any plans earlier.”

Cas’ half-smile is sharp-edged and beautiful. “No, you didn’t.”

Weak-kneed and sweaty-palmed, Dean tries to ignore the plush curve of Cas’ mouth, the mischievous glint in his eyes. “Errr… well, do you? Have any plans, that is?” 

Cas' half-smile turns whole. “It certainly seems as though I do now.”


End file.
